


The Grand Hotel, Eastbourne

by afinecollector (orphan_account)



Series: Not Waving but Drowning [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A nice day for a Holmes wedding, An actual hotel, Brotherly Love, Eastbourne, Epilepsy, F/M, Fairy princess, Family, Family time, Gen, Holmes Family, I liked this fic, I love Siger Holmes, JME, Janz Syndrome, Juvenile Myoclonic Epilepsy, Marriage, My Siger is totally Timothy Carlton, Mycroft's clearly alcohol dependent, Nuptuals, Seizure, Seizures, Sherlock bloody loves Milkshake, Sherlock is a sassy little shit, Wedding, Wedding Reception, epileptic, family values, fraternal love, seizure disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 10:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7504690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/afinecollector
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Holmes' attend Alison's wedding; Sherlock refuses a tie, Mycroft <i>knew</i> Sherlock was 'off', and Siger delights his boys with just how much of a wind-up merchant he could be back in the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Grand Hotel, Eastbourne

Sherlock stood before the full-length mirror in his parents’ bedroom and frowned at his reflection. Wearing dress trousers and a shirt was one thing, wearing a full suit and a much-detested tie was another and he hated the appearance he was greeted with. He didn’t see the need for a tie; he wasn’t a best man or an usher, there was no need to be anything but smart and he could be that without a tie. He dragged the knot open and pulled the tie off, opening the top button of his shirt and immediately he preferred the look. He winced, his stomach paining him sharply. It was a standard daily dealing since he’d started taking the lamotrigine; stomach cramps and nausea. Thankfully, he hadn’t thrown up since taking them up until this point, but the pains in his stomach had been getting increasingly more intolerable. 

“Tie, Sherlock.” Violet’s voice made Sherlock jump and he peered behind him to see his mother, dressed in a flowing green dress with an equally flowy cream-coloured crocheted cardigan. 

“I look like an idiot.” Sherlock told her in no uncertain terms, ignoring his stomach ache as much as he could. “And I won’t wear it. It makes me feel anxious and you know what that means…” 

“Don’t pull the seizure card on me, young man!” Violet tutted, pointing her left index finger at him. “It’s a wedding, Sherlock, your cousin’s wedding. It’s customary.” 

“It’s customary to be smart, not uncomfortable.” Sherlock returned her tutting. “Mycroft has a tie, Dad’s wearing a dickie. I’m fairly certain that my _not_ wearing a tie will not be the end of the ceremony. It’s Alison’s _big day_ , she’ll be centre of attention, not me and my tie, or lack thereof.” 

“For a nineteen year old, you’re insufferably childish.” Violet sighed through her nose in exasperation as she walked closer to him and brushed off his shoulders. “At least you’ve done something with that bloody hair.” 

Sherlock smiled at her in the mirror, despite himself. “Yes, Mummy, I’ve done my _bloody hair_.” 

Violet couldn’t help returning the smile, and patted her hand against his backside. “You…” She rolled her eyes comically. “We’re leaving in ten minutes, Mycroft is already downstairs, so come on down now and we can get going.” She said more firmly, turning to leave the room and make her way downstairs. 

Mycroft and Sherlock bundled into the back of the MGA, regarding one another with as much distaste for their attire as they had for their own. Broadly speaking, they both looked handsome and, of course, Violet did nothing but cluck about how beautiful her sons looked, but they were accustomed to their own styles and their current looks did not suit it. 

“Seat belts,” Siger called over his shoulder as he pushed the key into the ignition. “Everybody has everything they need?” He checked and, receiving nothing to indicate otherwise, he started the car. 

The venue that Alison had selected for her marriage ceremony was Christ Church in Eastbourne; the sun held up and the day was warm and inviting, as if the Heavens above approved of the union. As the family and friends of both Alison and her soon-to-be husband, Nick gathered in the churchyard, Sherlock stood back with Mycroft taking in the loudness of a relatively small group of people and wondered how they managed it. They watched their mother pecking around like the social hub she was, kissing the cheeks and shaking the hands of people who the boys assumed would become her new best friends. It took less than five minutes for Siger to join his sons under the shade of a blossoming tree beside the entrance gate of the church with an expression of early exhaustion plastered across his aging face. 

“Your mother’s really getting into this family lark.” He said, stopping a foot or two in front of his boys. 

Sherlock grinned, “Yeah she doesn’t really do things by halves.” He rubbed his right hand across his stomach, hiding as much as he could that the pain was getting to him.

“Has she ever, though?” Mycroft quipped, and Sherlock’s grin became a laugh. 

Siger shared their amusement. “On our wedding day,” He began lightheartedly, “She was rotating around the room at the reception with her mother in tow and being handed glasses of champagne as she moved from table to table. The ‘do started at six and by eight thirty she was already more drunk than your Uncle Tim!” Sherlock laughed loudly and Mycroft shook his head with restrained amusement. Being anywhere close to ‘as drunk as’ Uncle Timothy was a feat, being drunker than - therefore - was a milestone moment to be forever treasured. “She barely remembers the wedding night, which I’m glad of because it coincided with a rather interesting billiard game in the adjacent room, so she doesn’t remember that I slipped into there.” 

“Dad!” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose high on his forehead. 

“On your wedding day?” Sherlock laughed deep in his throat. “That’s monumental.” 

“Hence why I prefer her conjured memory of a pleasant evening and a memorable consummation.” Siger smiled with a broad, marshmallow grin. 

Sherlock’s laughter died into a grimace. “That’s enough!” He held out both hands. 

“They’re going in,” Mycroft indicated with a nod and Siger looked around to see Violet heading toward them as everybody else began to file into the church. The three men stepped out toward Violet and made their way into the church as a united foursome. 

 

 

Violet left the church with make-up streaking down her cheeks and searching for a tissue in her purse to dab it away. Both Mycroft and Sherlock had to admit that the ceremony was endearing, but the two were men of reason and Sherlock, in particular, was a man of science - religious services were not something they found easy to swallow. They were all, of course, invited back to the wedding breakfast at the Grand Hotel, a five minute drive or a pleasant walk along the beach away. Sherlock had never been in the hotel before, while Violet and Siger had fond memories of one or two nights nestled there - memories both Sherlock and Mycroft begged them not to recall with them in the car. 

“Alison looks lovely. I’m sure your Dad would have been so proud to see her today,” Violet said with an emotional wobble in her voice and placed her hand against Siger’s leg as he drove toward the hotel. 

“He would,” Siger glanced at her. “She’s beautiful.” 

Mycroft rolled his eyes at the cooing. So what, a lady was wearing a dress and veil; it didn’t mean she was beautiful at all. Not that Alison wasn’t an attractive woman, she had become rather handsome by all accounts, but it didn’t require gushing over. “You’re quiet,” He reached over, nudging Sherlock’s thigh with the back of his hand. 

“Dad, can you stop?” Sherlock spoke up. 

“What’s the matter, son?” Siger peered at Sherlock through the rear-view mirror. 

Sherlock shook his head, “I’m feeling a bit sick, can you please stop?” 

“It’s just another minute or two, Sherlock, love.” Violet turned awkwardly in her seat to look back at him. “We’re almost there.” 

Sherlock shook his head again as she looked at him with what she presumed was a soft smile, “No, Mum, I’m going to sick. Please,” he pushed against the back of her seat as Siger pulled the car in at his earliest convenience despite Violet’s words. “Let me out, please…” 

Violet unbuckled her seat belt was stepped out of the car, pulling her seat forward to allow Sherlock to climb out. He was barely on the grass at the roadside before he vomited, arching forwards and just avoiding getting sick down his trousers. He retched loudly, his meager breakfast landing at his feet. Mycroft cringed, turning up his nose at the horrific sounds emanating from his brother’s throat. Siger got out of the car and met his wife at the side, standing far enough back from Sherlock to give him space but staying generally close.

“Oh, my darling.” Violet approached as Sherlock straightened up, breathing deeply. She handed him a tissue from her handbag and rubbed her hand in the small of his back. “Have you felt unwell all morning?” 

“It’s just the tablets…” He blew his nose into the tissue, cringing at the acidic burn. “I’m fine now.” He nodded at her, throwing the tissue down to the floor. “Really,” he said, arching his back to get her to move her hand. “I’m okay.” 

“Ready to drive on?” Siger asked him, his face set in a sympathetic smile. Sherlock nodded his head and walked slowly back to the car. 

“I knew you weren’t right.” Mycroft said as Sherlock flopped back into the seat beside him.

“Did you really?” Sherlock groaned, feeling shaking. After a final check that Sherlock was okay, Siger restarted the car and finished the very short drive toward the Grand Hotel, barely another two minutes along the road ahead. 

The large hall within the hotel was decked out like a Swan Princess themed Prom Night; fairy-tail like and deliberately darkened to allow for the sparkle of lanterns, candles and fairy-lights that were sprayed throughout the room. Largely following a silver and white theme, helium-filled balloons acted as centrepieces for each of the twenty tables, and the high-backed chairs were covered in white, linen floor-length coats with great, silver bows tied around the back in perfectly neat knots. It was dreamlike and sweet, desperately girly, and truly echoed Alison in every way; dainty, airy and over-the-top. 

“Oh, Siger, look…” Violet cooed, stepping into the hall. Her shoes were noisy on the polished wood beneath her feet and it was echoed by the steps of everyone else who filtered in and began to chatter loudly. 

“It looks as if Christmas exploded in here.” Mycroft remarked and Sherlock laughed quietly. 

“Yeah - a little bit.” Sherlock agreed, flattening his mouth into a thin line of disinterest. 

“Drink?” Mycroft offered, nodding toward the bar. 

“It’s eleven am,” Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “And no, I can’t.” 

Mycroft hummed. “I’m assuming there’s no milkshake, either.” Sherlock mocked him with a laugh and rolled his eyes. 

“Locky, Mike…” Alison approached them from being with a bright, glowing smile that, despite the boys, was infectious and returned by the four of them. 

“Congratulations.” Mycroft said, kissing his cousin’s cheeks curtly. 

“Yeah, congratulations, Ally.” Sherlock nodded his agreement, and hugged her awkwardly as she kissed him on both cheeks.

Releasing the boys, Alison turned her affections to her aunt and uncle with clear exuberance. “I’m really glad you’re all here,” She grinned at them, vibrating with excitement. “I just wish Pop was here.” She looked at her Uncle Siger, “I’d have loved to have had him walk me down the aisle with Dad.” 

“I know, love.” Siger took her hand in his. “He’s with us, don’t you worry about that. Why else is the sun shining today?” He winked at her, and Alison smiled back at him with watery eyes. For a moment, Sherlock wondered if his father didn’t wish he had his own little girl to be frogmarching down the aisle on her special day. 

“So that drink?” Sherlock twisted on his feet to Mycroft. 

“Stop it, you two.” Violet scolded. “Sociable faces, thank you, and perfect manners. None of your stupidity today. Grow up.” 

 

 

Mycroft and Sherlock remained seated for the majority of the day’s festivities, even as their parents got up to the dance floor and busted moves as well as the rest of the clan. They did remain spirited, mind you, laughing and smiling despite their often sombre default settings. But, as ever in social settings, Mycroft was reluctant to leave his brother - even more so given his early gastrointestinal issues - and remained close to him but for bathroom trips. His closeness, however, highlighted just how much more frequent his focal seizures had become since the newest switch in his medication and it startled him to see Sherlock ‘zone out’ five times in a single passing hour. 

Leaning close to Sherlock’s ear, Mycroft spoke loudly, “You’re feeling okay?” he checked. 

Sherlock turned his head, brows crooked at the question, and nodded. “I’m fine.” He mouthed over the loud music. 

“You’re not getting that merry-go-round feeling, or a headache?” Mycroft quizzed. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” Sherlock said with amusement at Mycroft’s slight frown. “Have another drink and loosen your goddamned tie, Mycroft, it’s supposed to be a celebration. I’m okay.” 

Mycroft sat back in his seat, his gaze floating between the moving bodies and his brother, ever vigilant and unconvinced. He watched Sherlock freeze in another absence seizure and frowned, tilting his head. He looked out at the dance floor and it dawned on him… One third of all Janz Syndrome sufferers were photosensitive. He wondered if the mechanically moving, multi coloured lights that flashed around the room were provoking the absences. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not - would the prolonged exposure induce the seizures into generalising? Certain he’d cracked the code as to why Sherlock’s seizures were more prevalent tonight but not sure whether he should be on hot alert, he kept his eye on him closely as he sipped at his warm champagne. 

The loud night began to wind down around midnight, as family members and friend who had children began filtering off to their booked rooms or to find taxis back to their homes. Somewhat to Mycroft’s surprise, he’d stayed to the bitter end, watching his parents dancing with a certain degree of fondness warming his heart. Beside him, Sherlock’s jerks had begun to plague him and he was trying to catch his parents’ line of sight without waving his hand around and yelling ‘seizures out the wazoo’ across the dance hall. 

“I can call us a cab back to the house, if you want?” Mycroft leaned in to Sherlock, though the music was considerably less obnoxious in its volume now. Sherlock remained still, his right arm jerking in against his chest in quick successive shocks, and he breathed deeply through it. Mycroft placed his hand on Sherlock’s back, between his shoulders, as the jerking continued. “I’ll call a cab. Sit tight.” 

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose as the contraction released and he was able to flex his arm down again. “No, it’s okay.” He shook his head, turning to Mycroft. 

“You’re exhausted, and it isn’t fair for you to sit here so uncomfortable with everyone still around.” Mycroft said matter-of-factly. 

“I said no.” Sherlock said sharply, “I’ll go with Mum and Dad when they’re ready to leave. I’m not diving off into a taxi like the fu-bloody mule child.” 

“I didn’t mean that,” Mycroft said swiftly. “Sherlock, I didn’t mean that.” 

Sherlock shrugged Mycroft’s hand away from him and got to his feet, “Whatever.” He sighed, heading toward the dance floor where his parents were talking with his Aunt Abigail. As Sherlock approached, the drunk Abigail quickly wrapped her arm around his waist from behind and pulled him close to her. 

“Look at you all scrubbed up, Locky.” She slurred into his ear. Sherlock raised his brows and forced a smile at her. 

“Can we go?” He whispered to his mother. “The twitching…” 

Violet’s eyes widened and she nodded quickly. “We’d better be going, Abi, love.” She said, working Abigail’s arm from around Sherlock’s waist and cradled Sherlock into her side a little protectively. “Siger, will you call for a taxi?” Her husband nodded at her, and patted his hand against Sherlock’s arm as he walked toward the hall doors to access the phone in the foyer. “It’s been a wonderful night; Alison looks wonderful and I do love Nick.” 

“Perfect for each other!” Abigail proclaimed and giggled. “So perfect.” She hummed, “You’re next then, Locky my dear! I’m sure someone will have you, despite the head thing.” She laughed loudly. “I’m sure we can get you to a debs or something, find you a nice girl your age. You haven’t seen one at university yet? Then again I don’t suppose you’re ever out of that laboratory, are you? Chemist…” she shook her head in drunken wonderment. “Marvelous.” 

Violet breathed a sigh of relief when Siger approached her, with Mycroft a step or two behind him, and announced that the cab would be five minutes at the most. “We’d better go and meet the taxi outside,” She said coolly with a forced smile at Abigail. “I’ll call tomorrow, make sure everyone got home safely and that Ally and Nick set off okay.” She kept her arm around Sherlock’s slim waist and steered him with her as she walked away. “Head thing?” She repeated Abigail’s words and looked up at her son. “I’m sorry, my darling.” She cuddled him to her as they walked. 

“What’s that?” Siger crooked his eyebrows. 

“Abigail is drunk - I had never realised how verbal she could be before.” Violet said with sigh, still holding Sherlock close to her. Mycroft surprised to see that Sherlock wasn’t fighting against his mother’s vice grip. 

“Verbal, how?” Mycroft asked, eyeing his brother. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock rolled his eyes lethargically. “Can we get into this bloody taxi?” He pushed free of his mother’s arms and preceded them through the hall doors and out into the cool, night Eastbourne air. Siger and Violet had memories of the Eastbourne Grand Hotel that were fond and sexy; Sherlock couldn’t say he appreciated it’s appeal.


End file.
